Something in Writing
by Boyue
Summary: A collection of short stories, each inspired by a quote from a novel. Multiple Pairings.
1. Kenny x Damien

_South Park and its characters © Trey Parker and Matt Stone_

_Multiple Pairings._

_Rated T for South Park language._

_Boyue's Note: This is for a book challenge that I saw! Choose a book, take the first full line in every tenth page, and write a drabble! I-I'm going to let you guess which book this is…_

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**Chloe breathed against my neck.**

**Pairing: Kenny x Damien**

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Chloe breathes against my neck. Or at least I think her name is Chloe. And I think it's a she. It's hard to tell or care when there are six shots of Patrón cruising through my veins and I can barely remember my own name. Don't get me wrong, I'm not drunk yet, but if you ask me to explain to you what happened in the War of 1912, it might take a moment and a puke bucket next to my feet.

Or was it 1812? I can't remember off the top of my head. But that's probably only because Chloe is slipping my hand under her tank top and letting me feel her breasts. They are real, by the way, so you can stop with the juvenile rumors of how she gave blowjobs in the small gym's locker room to pay for her boob job. Anyways, where am I?

Chloe starts unbuttoning her shirt. I wish she'd unbutton my jeans and suck me off already. She throws her shirt on the floor and smiles at me in her black lacey bra. I reach up and pull her over so she is sitting on my laps. I start to grind up against her. It's a good thing I wore my looser jeans today or else my dick would be hurting like a bitch to get out. I put my hands on her back and start to unhook her bra. She leans over and licks my earlobe…

You know what? Fuck this. You don't wanna hear about all the boring foreplay shit, so I'll just let you know when shit finally gets going.

…

…

…

This is the part where I was originally going to tell you that I'm ramming into Chloe. Instead, it brings me great pain to let you know that there will be no sex this evening. You see, a certain son-of-Satan friend of mine has decided to show up without warning. Not only that, he actually has the nerve to throw Chloe out of my house – literally, by the way. Anyone with a sense of common courtesy should know that that is unacceptable and rude and an ultimate cockblock.

Then again, this is Damien we are talking about, and he plays by his own fucked up rules. For instance, right now, he is shooing me over in my bed so he can climb in and lies down without asking me if it's okay first. He is huffing and grumbling like a whiny bitch, and I already know what's happened.

"Why do I have to suffer every time you and Pip have a fight?"

"Shut up," the bastard says.

"Didn't have to kick Chloe out."

"I saved you from contracting a severe case of crabs, you fool."

Chloe has crabs, you guys. But it's still not a justifiable reason for cockblocking me though.

"But what am I goin' to do about this?"

Damien snaps his head around and snarls at me. His eyes dare me to try anything funny and he'll cut my dick off and feed it to hungry hell pigs. I throw my hands up and get down next to him. I'll probably start jerking off in a few minutes to get off but for now, I guess I can try to make Damien feel better. Listen to him rant, give him moral support, all the gay things that Kyle does for Stan whenever Stan is having a bad day. Except Damien isn't my boyfriend and me giving him a blowjob probably will only make things worse.

"So what happened in paradise this time?"

Even though I already know he's going to be gone when I open my eyes in the morning and I'll see him and Pip walking together in school like nothing has happened. Because nothing ever does happen. They fight over stupid shit like Damien leaving the toilet seat up or buying the wrong brand of milk. It's never serious, and they are never going to break up. So hence, me plus him doing anything equals wrong.

Damien rolls over and our foreheads touch. He doesn't say a thing, just stares at me with those scary soulless eyes. If you think we do more than sleeping in the same bed when he comes over, sorry to disappoint. We are just friends.

"Is that your dick poking me?" he asks.

Yup. Just friends.

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**THE END.**

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_Boyue's Note: H-haha... I'm so rusty at writing... I just really need this to get back in the game...! One line down, nine more to go...! _

_07.17.10_

_1:17 AM_


	2. Stan x Kyle

_South Park and its characters © Trey Parker and Matt Stone_

_Rated T for South Park language._

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**This is one of those pet adventures, when the dog and cat are left behind by a traveling family and must find their way home.**

**Pairing: Stan x Kyle

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"The bus isn't coming back," Kyle said.

"Just wait a little longer," Stan answered.

"We've waited for an hour."

"They'll come back… they have to."

Stan and Kyle sat side-by-side on the edge of the sidewalk. They watched the road carefully. Each searched for the disgustingly yellow school-bus that had left them behind. Stan licked his lips, dried up from the summer heat. He shielded his eyes with a hand and looked out to the road. There was really no reason for them to be so attentive to the traffic; they were in the middle of nowhere, outside a rest area on the way to the Rocky Mountain National Park. The rest area was barren of visitors; not even a swarm of summer bugs kept the boys company. Stan lowered his hand and turned his gaze on his best friend instead. The redhead's full lips pouted, knocking ten off his twelve years. Round eyes dulled under the bright sunlight with hint of imminent water work.

"They are probably at the park already," Kyle said.

Stan huffed. He would think Cartman would mention it to the driver that there were two people missing. Then again, it was Cartman, and Stan would be a fool to expect anything out of him. He stood up and dusted his shorts. Kyle watched him, a curious glance on his face. Their eyes met. Stan's flared with determination; Kyle's glowed with confusion.

"Come on, man, let's go," Stan proposed.

"Where?"

"That way. We'll walk to town. We can call our parents from there."

The flickers in Kyle's eyes told Stan that his friend was not keen to his idea. "I don't know, Stan…"

"If you want to sit and wait, that's fine."

And with that, Stan began to walk away. It was only a mere trick to get Kyle to be on his feet, and it worked as perfectly as Stan had expected. Kyle stood up immediately and chased after him. A slender hand gripped Stan's shoulder and stopped him from taking another step.

"Dude! You were just going to leave me here!" the Jew accused.

"Well, yeah." Stan shrugged, as if it was the most casual of reason, one that did not warrant Kyle's grumbling opposition.

"Fuck you," Kyle shouted, but the fatigue in him only made it sounded like a pitiful whine.

"Are you coming or not?" Stan took a step again. And another. He side-stepped until Kyle stomped his feet and eliminated the distance he drew between them.

"Fine! Fuck! I'll go!"

"All right. C'mon!"

"Wait. Stan?"

"Yeah, dude?"

"Will you hold my hand while we walk?"

Stan tripped over his steps. He stared at Kyle with stammering lips and studied the look on Kyle's face. Upon realizing that his best friend was serious about his request, Stan ran his fingers through his ebony hair, messing up the otherwise perfect position. He shifted his weight between feet and averted his eyes.

"Why? Isn't that kind of…"

"Please?" Kyle pleaded, his voice dropping to the likeness of a whimper. "I don't want to get separated."

Stan's heart skipped. The softness in Kyle's speech had triggered something in him that he had never known to exist. Maybe it was the sting of guilt he felt for whatever reason. He could not stand to say no to that simple want. He bit the inside of his mouth and gave the faintest nod. He extended his arm and spread his hand mechanically, like he had never known how to use his limbs. Kyle hurried over and clasped their hands. Stan looked down at their intertwined hands and gulped. Their palms were sticky with sweat, and Stan felt chills curling up his spine even if it was 99 degree out. His throat dried up, and there was the familiar taste of bile in his mouth. He swallowed it all and tried his hardest to say calm.

"O-okay… you ready?"

Together, they walked down the road, hand-in-hand. Stan kept his eyes on the road, trying his hardest not to notice that Kyle was a few inches shorter than he was and that Kyle's head would fit perfectly on his shoulder.

"Are you sure this is the right way?" Kyle spoke up.

"Yeah, I'm sure." So long as their hands were held together, any way would be the right way.

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**THE END **


	3. Christophe x Kyle

_South Park and its characters © Trey Parker and Matt Stone_

_Rated T for South Park language.

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**The security task force guy explained everything to me.**

**Pairing: Christophe x Kyle

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"It's the nature of our job", the man the suit says.

Kyle stares at the man's striped tie, intrigued by its off-shaded color. Just what kind of red is it supposed to be anyways? It's too light to be tomato, but too dark to be apple.

"He was a great asset," the man says. He switches his weight from left foot to right foot while two fingers ascend to push the sunglasses back up his nose ridge.

The rustling disrupts Kyle's thought for a short second. He makes brief eye-contact with dark lenses. Finding nothing to interesting, he pulls his attention back to the tie. From this light, it's a little raspberry-y, isn't it? Or maybe more like cherry. It's almost strawberry-like actually. He pauses, tongue moistening his chapped lip. He changes direction in his thought process. No more food. There are plenty of things that are red.

"It was a very dangerous mission, but he took it without a second thought," the man says.

_Fire trucks, for one. Fire hydrates. Fire extinguishers. Coca-cola soda cans._

"He died a hero," the man says.

_Ketchup. Lipsticks. Stop signs. Red peppers, duh. China's flag. His mom's skirt. The Flash._

"We are all very sad to lose him," the man says.

_Netflix's envelop. A fucking clown nose. Poinsettias. Poppies. Roses. Uuhh…._

"I am very sorry," the man says. He reaches out and offers a sympathetic pat on Kyle's shoulder.

_Blood. _

Kyle breaks away from the red tie. He looks up at the man, who stares back at him waiting for an answer – a confirmation that yes, he has been paying attention and yes, he fully understands the news he has just received.

_His hair. His heart._

Kyle draws a smile on his face and gives a weak nod of his head. He gets it. He'll be okay. He'll be all right. So long as he can figure what kind of green is that man's suit.

_Christophe's shirt.

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**THE END **


	4. Craig x Tweek

_South Park and its characters © Trey Parker and Matt Stone_

_Rated T for South Park language.

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**Tyler and I still go to fight club, together.**

**Pairing: Craig x Tweek

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If Tweek Tweak had to explain why he loved fighting Craig Tucker so much, he would not be able to say.

The blond bit back the pain as Craig's fist made contact with his jaw. He lost his footing, tumbled back a few steps, and barely managed to keep himself in a standing position. Before he had time to retaliate, Craig landed a grazing shot at his nose. Tweek cried out at that. He breathed copper and tasted it on his tongue. He gagged at the fluid cruising down his throat. When he spit, his saliva hinted red. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and looked to Craig. The cruel excitement in Craig's face captivated his attention momentarily before his vision was blurred from a punch to the cheek. Craig spared no time, and Tweek was realizing that he should do the same.

He rolled on the ground until he had gained an opportunistic distance between the two bodies. He scrambled to his knees, just in time to block a dashing kick that was intended for his face. Before he could regain his composure, he had to stop another assault from Craig. He grabbed Craig's wrist, deferring the blow, and took his chance to deliver a punch to Craig's toned abdomen. It wasn't enough to push Craig back, but it did give Tweek enough time to begin a counterattack. In fact, it was a good thing that they were still in close proximity; Tweek didn't want to waste any energy. He fisted his hand and rammed it as hard as he could into Craig's chest. It knocked the air right out of Craig's lungs. Tweek almost grinned – almost, if it wasn't for the knuckle that grinded his cheekbone. His mouth opened. A whisper of a cry sputtered out like a broken engine. He lost his grip on Craig's wrist, and in a matter of seconds, Craig was raining punches down his ear like a horrible Rock Band drummer. Tweek couldn't hear himself think; only the sounds of bones bumping bones drummed.

The fight was one-sided to begin with, anyone could see that. But Tweek didn't mind. Maybe here was a reason why he loved fighting Craig: there was no pressure. He knew he couldn't win going into the fight. With no expectation to win, there was no pressure to have. It was exhilarating, giving him a high that caffeine had failed to provide over the years. In coffee's defense, the brown addiction did not leave his head ringing with pain the next morning. Craig grabbed him by his hair – a cheap move, really – and turned his head so they could see face-to-face. Beautiful and sexy Craig, his torso glistened with perspiration. Tweek licked his bruised lip. He could almost taste the other man. And he did when Craig's fist made contact with his lips. A tooth trembled, like it was trying to duck out of the way. Tweek swallowed blood. Tired eyes gazed upon his angel of destruction. Craig brought his knuckle down. Tweek threw his arms up to block. Like catapults wailing down on a castle wall, Craig landed punches after punches at the radius with the bloody intention of breaking it.

It hurt. It hurt so much. But Tweek didn't call off the fight. He let it go on. He let it happen until his body was raw with aches that would take weeks to heal. His senses twisted and mingled. When Craig punched him in the jaw, he thought he tasted armpits. When Craig uppercut him, he thought he heard Shelley Marsh's voice. When Craig kicked him in the guts, he thought he smelled Mr. Mackey's weed. He spit saliva and blood, but he couldn't taste either. It was a good thing in Tweek's half-conscious mind. The least he was aware of the pain, the better. His arms grew weary of blocking. They fell to his side, allowing Craig to deal the final blow.

Tweek was certain his nose was broken this time. The moment he stepped through the door, his parents would sit him down with a mug of coffee and asked him questions before grounding him for a week. Was he bullied in school again? What was the name of the boy that hit him? Did he tell the teachers? Why didn't he just run away? And Tweek would sip his Latin American house blend, shake his head no, and keep quiet about the incident. Once his wounds were healed, he would be back here in the empty warehouse, starting another duel with Craig. They would slam into each other. They would dance in punches and kicks that would land and miss. And at the end of the fight, if he was lucky, Craig would do exactly what he was doing right now.

Tweek just had enough left in him to lick the blood off his lips. Though, honestly, he did not need to since Craig's tongue was already doing the job. Craig was still rough, but instead of punches and kicks, he was assaulting Tweek with his mouth. Kisses parachuted on Tweek's purpling skin. He fluttered his eyelashes, a desperate gesture to stay awake. He parted his lips – his jaw screaming – and invited Craig in. His hand reached and found the last drop of strength to hold Craig close to him. Not that he needed to, really; Craig was practically slobbering over his face. Maybe here was another reason why he loved fighting Craig: it brought out the primal nature in both of them. It was only during the fights that Tweek had seen the poker-faced Craig smiled and grinned. That smile melted him. That grin shattered him. So he took the pain because if he could make Craig happy somehow, he didn't mind being a sparring partner.

Craig sucked on his bottom lip. Tweek meekly let out a moan. Even in his defeated state, Tweek fought tongue with tongue. Craig's fingers clawed at his scalp, pulling and tugging his strands of hair. Tweek didn't even feel the pain anymore. All he knew was that saliva and blood were mixing again and dripping on his taste buds. He could taste Craig, and if he could do that, he didn't mind the bruises or the broken bones. Nothing was solved when the fight was over, but nothing mattered.

So long as he could taste Craig, nothing mattered.

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**THE END

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_Boyue's Note: I actually kind of like this one. :D_

_07.17.10_

_10:06 PM_


	5. Christophe x Kyle :2:

_South Park and its characters © Trey Parker and Matt Stone_

_Rated T for South Park language.

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**I'm Joe's White Knuckles.**

**Pairing: Christophe x Kyle

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In the empty alley, Christophe snuffed out his cigarette with the heel of his combat boot. He reached into the back pocket of his trousers and dug out the cigarette pack. When he saw that he had finished the last of his fix, he crushed the paperboard and hurled it away, as if the animate object had offended him in some way and deserved to be punished. He nipped the inside of his mouth, savoring the remnant of the nicotine. His hands already twitched from withdrawal. He fisted them, telling them to quiet down or be slammed into a brick wall. He ran one hand over the other and felt the hardness of the knuckles. His trembling stilled for now. Sleep-deprived eyes scanned the afternoon sky. The mixture of fuchsia and salmon told him the sun was drawing to a set, and that meant one thing.

He smoothed the wrinkles out of his olive shirt. Fingers danced over the mud-colored strap he used to secure his trusty shovel, adjusting something that needed not to be adjusted. Gloved hand made a pathetic attempt to make sense of the mess he called his hair. It almost seemed like he was trying to make himself presentable, an idea that amused even him. Nonetheless, he straightened out his khaki pants, trying his hardest to rub away the dark stains even though he knew it was impossible. Blood couldn't be cleansed with dirty thumbs and nails. He searched his pockets and contemplated using the roll of bandage to cover up the stains. He thought better of it when he heard a bus pulling up to the bus stop. He retreated to hide in the darkness. Attentive, he watched the denizens of South Park descended from the bus. He watched teenage girls giggled and gossips, shoving an elder man out of the way. Disgusted as he was by the selfishness, all the negativity vanished when he saw a familiar person in a green ushanka stepping down from the bus. Christophe pressed his lips into a stiff line. A chill tickled his spine.

Kyle Broflovski extended his hand to help the old man off the bus. The old man thanked the Jewish boy before he began to ramble on how kids these days didn't know any manner and soda shouldn't cost a dollar-fifty. Kyle listened with a weak smile on his gentle face – a face that made Christophe feel sick to his stomach. He blamed it on the lack of nicotine in his veins. The old man headed on his way, still grieving for the state of the world. Kyle made sure the man was fine before he walked in the opposite direction. Christophe pressed his back against the wall as Kyle approached. The shovel clanked when it hit the bricks.

_Sheet_, the Frenchman thought.

He gazed out through the alley. Kyle had turned his head, searching for the source of the sound. Christophe gnawed his bottom lip. Silently, he cursed himself for making such a rookie mistake. He was a world-class mercenary, for fuck's sake! His knees should not be weak from the sight of bouncy red curls and full lips that begged to be smothered with kisses. He held his breath, waited patiently for Kyle to begin moving. Kyle glanced across the street, still on the look-out for the strange noise. Christophe stood stiff as a stone statue, not even his eyes blinked. From his angle, he could see the setting sun glazing Kyle in a surreal glow. If Christophe didn't know better, ha, he could have thought the Jew was a messenger from that bitch of a God himelf.

Once the Kyle abandoned his search and started to walk again, Christophe allowed air to fill his lungs. He was accustomed to holding his breath; though it was proving to be a challenge to retain consciousness with no air and a faster-than-normal heart rate. Even as oxygen entered him, he felt light-headed and nauseous. His vision blurred momentarily. The precious redhead faded from sight. In a panic, Christophe pushed himself away from the brick wall, feeling a primal desire to keep Kyle in his sight. If he could not see Kyle, then the reality began to crumble. Only, he stopped abruptly when his better sense returned to him. He had promised never to approach Kyle in fear that he would bring misfortune upon the Jew. He had enemies – enemies that ranked in ruthlessness beyond that of Eric Cartman's – and he would be damned to Hell and be a playmate of Cerberus before he let Kyle lose a flake of skin.

He scooted out of the alleyway, precise in the steps he took to make the swiftest movement with the least noise. At the gap between barriers, he leaned out and watched Kyle walk home. There was an innocence in Kyle's steps that shamed Christophe for wanting to take it away. The redhead had opened a textbook, and his eyes were glued to the pages. Christophe almost sighed like a damn girl with a crush on the football team captain. His perpetual frown dissolved into a softness that disturbed him. He hardened up, knitted his eyebrows as much as he could, and glared at Kyle's back. It was not the first time he had watched Kyle from this very alley. With each time, he grew more and more attached, and his heart ached more and more for the redhead. If he could only reach out and touch Kyle, if only.

Instead, his hand gripped the corner of the walls. His knuckles paled to white. Perhaps one day, a car would careen out of control and Christophe would have the chance to save him. Until then, he would – he could – only watch from the darkness, yearning for what he could not have.

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**THE END**

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_Boyue's Note: This is such a guilty pleasure pairing of mine. D8_

_07.18.10_

_1:15 PM_


	6. Cartman x Kenny

_South Park and its characters © Trey Parker and Matt Stone_

_Rated T for South Park language._

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**I stir the boiling water.**

**Pairing: Cartman x Kenny

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"Damn it, Kenny," Eric complaints behind me. He bangs the disposable spork that I got from KFC against the table. His eyebrows furrow deep, his nostril flaring. "Is it ready yet?"

"It takes three minutes for it to cook." I rip open the ramen package and dump it into the pot.

"Damn it! You poor people and your poor food piss me off!"

Most people… No, actually no one really understands why I hang out with Eric. No one understands why I can stand to be around that rude, greedy, sinister, condescending, anti-Semitic, cowardly fat piece of bigot shit. To be completely honest, I'm not really sure either. I can give the easy answer and say I see something in him that people don't. But that would be a lie. The fact of the matter is that Eric Cartman is a piece of work through and through. I have tried for my entire life to find one redeeming quality about him but have come up empty-handed. So, I can't say. Maybe it's my hope that there is something about Eric that's worth saving. Or maybe I just want to be around someone who is worse of a human being than I am. I don't know. But after all the shit that we've been through together, I still haven't walked out on him. And I don't think I ever will.

"Kenny!" Eric yells at me again. "I'm hungry, Kenny!"

"It'll take about two more minutes."

"Goddamn it, Kenny. This is all your fault."

"How is my fault?"

"If you've started cooking five minutes earlier, I would be eating right now."

I stir the boiling water. The ramen breaks apart. Eric bangs his spork over and over, like that's going to make the secondhand move faster. I lean next to the stove and watch that immature mannerism at full play. I don't know why I find the way he grumbles with pouted lips adorable. I don't know why I am walking over to him now. I don't know why I press my hand over his to stop him from banging the table. I don't know why I lean down. I don't know why I kiss him on that adorable set of lips. I don't know why _he_ kisses back.

"Shut the fuck up, all right? It'll take just a minute."

Sometimes, I think I am only with him because no one else wants me and oh god, I'm so afraid of being alone. Sometimes I think it's because he is the only one for me. I think I want him. I think I like being with him. Maybe I even like the way how he is so abusive and demanding, like how he is pointing a mean finger at my face right now.

"You have exactly 60 seconds to put food on this table or I'm going to kick you in the nuts!"

I walk back to the stove and turn off the fire. I grab the drumsticks from Band Hero that Kyle doesn't want anymore and use them as a tong to get the noodle out. The noodle sits nicely in a bowl that I swear is not a used dog food dish.

"30 seconds."

I use an old shirt as a mitten and pour the hot water into the bowl. I mix the bag of seasoning into the water and watches it change to the color of sand. It smells good, and I remember that this is the last bag of ramen and there isn't going to be food for dinner tonight. Oh well. I've gone hungry before. Eric, on the other hand, can't survive an hour without a snack. Food means more to him than it does to me.

"20."

I dry my hand and let the pot sit on the stove. The water will have to come in handy later. Hell, it might even be my shower tonight.

"10."

I walk over to the table as Eric keeps counting down, like he likes he is really threatening me. As soon as the ramen is on the table, he shoves his spork in and eats like he has never eaten before. I pull the chair out next to him and watch him. Maybe I like the way he slobbers over his food like a pig. It makes me smile, yeah, but it's still a huge turn-off. Like I've said, I don't know. I really don't know.

"You are lucky this tastes good," Eric says with a mouthful of ramen.

"You are welcome."

Eric slurps the noodle with a huff. I gulp and try not to think about how good the 50-cent food smells. I don't know if he saw the look on my face or how I licked my lips watching him eat, but Eric wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He pushes the bowl over so that it's between us. Then he hands the spork over. I look at the spork, not quite believing what's happening. Eric Cartman offering to share his food with me? I must be dreaming or tripping balls.

"Damn it, Kenny," is all he says, looking at me like I was dropped on my head when I was born – which I might have been. "Are you going to eat or not?"

I take the spork out of his hand and stick it in the ramen. I can't even really bring myself to take a bite. Yeah, I don't know why I don't mind him or why I like being around him. Maybe I'm masochistic. Maybe I like to be yelled at and treated like I'm not worth a half a penny.

Maybe I'm just in love.

Yeah. I think that must be it.

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**THE END

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_Boyue's Note: First time ever writing this pairing. o.o;;_**  
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	7. Craig x Tweek :2:

_South Park and its characters © Trey Parker and Matt Stone_

_Rated T for South Park language._

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**With the elevator stopped between floors, my view is about a cockroach above the green linoleum…**

**Pairing: Craig x Tweek

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It took about zero point three seconds for Tweek to fall on his butt and began to scream at the top of his lung when the power circuited and the elevator cut to an abrupt stop. The Denver Broncos travel mug he was holding hit the ground. Its brown gut spilled; the liquid mixed with an old puddle of sticky orange smoothie. The caffeinated blond backed into the corner of the elevator and pulled his knees to his chest. He trembled like he was sitting in an invisible massage chair. His fingers – with dirt lining his nails – combed erratically through his already messed-up head of hair. He pulled and tugged the strands. The hair he managed to plug out scattered on the floor, as if he was offering his hair to appease the electric God, to beg the elevator to start moving again.

"I'm going to die. I'm going to die," Tweek whimpered. His teeth clattered with unease. Something in the shaft cranked and - Tweek swore to God - the elevator dropped an inch. He slammed the back of his head into the hard corner. One hand clutched over his olive shirt; the other glued to the wall. His hand sweated, leaving fingerprints on the silver finish. He swallowed the string of panic that was coming up in the form of vomit. He bit the inside of his mouth and tried his damnest to keep breathing. He looked up and saw that only half the circle of '7' was lit. He stared at it, his eyes widened when the light moved out of the circle. And in the next seconds, the elevator fell again. Tweek bellowed out the loudest of scream he could muster. Even as he continued to back into the corner, his back coated with sweat, he could not stop the freefall. He could not stop the nausea or the pounding his heart or his cell phone falling out of his pocket.

Once the elevator stopped again and it had really only slid for short seconds, Tweek crawled to pick up his phone that had bounced itself in the sticky puddle. His hands shook terribly that it took a while before he could press the keys and dial for help. The line rang. Tweek chewed the skin off his lip. His eyes were already clouded with tears. He drove the heel of his palm into an eye and tried to clear the vision. In the hollow shaft, another soft screech echoed. He braced himself for another fall, both hands gripping the phone on one ear.

At the last ring before the call reached voice mail, a monotonous voice answered. "'sup."

"C-Craig. Oh Jesus. Craig. H-help me."

"What?"

Before he could explain the situation, the elevator dropped. Tweek screamed into the phone. By now, it was more of a frightened sob than anything. It seemed each time the elevator fell, it fell longer and further down. He tried to speak, but his throat was raw with pain. His eyes landed up to the dim light. He had gone from the seventh floor to the fifth, and already the fifth light was slipping away like an eclipse.

"Tweek, you are breaking up." Craig's voice was dull. Bored. Like he had not just heard Tweek scream.

"C-Craig?" Tweek whimpered. "C-can you hear me?"

"No."

"C-craig!"

"What?"

It might have occurred to him that he should have called for the fire department and he could be out of the mess already. But instinct took over in the state of panic, and the only thing he knew for certain was that Craig Tucker would be able to help him. Because Craig had always helped him, and Craig would not fail him now. Not when Tweek needed him the most.

"Craig, the elevator, OH JESUS, the elevator! It's stuck! I'm stuck!"

"What's stuck? Where are you?"

"The power is out. AHHCK. Craig. H-help me! Help…"

Something screeched again. Tweek clutched the phone. He looked up at the light. It had left '5' and he knew that in…

"Gah, Jesus! Craig, I-I'm scared. Craig. Craig!"

Three…

"What did you say?"

Two…

"O-OH JESUS! GAH! Jesus, please, please, please."

One.

"Tweek? Hello?"

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**THE END

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**

_Boyue's Note: I love this pairing so much. ;n;_

_07.22.10_


	8. Damien x Pip

_South Park and its characters © Trey Parker and Matt Stone_

_Rated T for South Park language._

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"**Disaster is a natural part of my evolution," Tyler whispered, "toward tragedy and dissolution."**

**Pairing: Damien x Pip**

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"Damien! Please! Please! Stop!"

Pip couldn't keep up. No matter how loud he shouted and screamed Damien's name, the anti-Christ simply ignored him and continued to levitate through South Park. Pip could only watch in hopeless breaths as streets, trees and flowers, innocent woodland creatures, buildings, the town's denizens – rest their souls! – all disintegrated nothing at the flick of Damien's wrist. Towers of inferno broke apart the ground. Manhole covers flew through the air like deadly Frisbees. The sky bled ashes. And all Pip could do was to follow the trail of destruction. His heart collapsed from the anguished cries of people he had had the pleasure of calling his friends.

"Damien, please! Don't do this anymore!"

Damien gestured with his hand, casual as a wave of hello, and a parked car flipped into the air like an acrobat. Pip ducked, a yelp slipped out of his lips. The car landed feet – no, inches – away from him. It was only a mere stroke of luck that he was not crushed by the car, but the British gentleman took it as a sign that Damien was still Damien. It gave him hope and the strength to keep his legs moving. He stepped on a bloody chullo hat that he knew used to be blue and belonged to someone. Tears blurred the crosshair he had locked on Damien.

"I am begging you, love, please… please stop!"

It should have been a quiet eighteenth birthday. Damien should be blowing out the candles on the Devil Food cake that Pip had baked. He should be unwrapping the red scarf that Pip had spent the last three months knitting. People shouldn't be dying around them. It was all wrong. This wasn't how birthdays were supposed to go. Pip swallowed the sob that threatened to escape from his throat. He hissed in a gasp as Damien, at last, planted his feet on the charred ground again. The anti-Christ stood nonchalantly in the midst of destruction. He brought his hand up to his face, as if to check if he had broken a nail in the process.

Pip caught up, his lungs working twice as hard to keep him conscious. He mimicked Damien's action, only his hand covered his mouth to stop himself from gasping too loud. Damien's horns and tail had grown out since the morning. It didn't take long for the blond to gather what was happening. Destruction made Damien grow; it made him stronger, allowed him to be fitted for world domination. It was inevitable: a reality that Pip had chosen to ignore for too long.

Damien dropped his hand. He turned around. There was a look of surprise when he registered Pip's presence. He stood with his weight on one leg and extended his hand to summon Pip toward him. Pip ran forward without a second thought and threw himself into Damien's arms. He recoiled at Damien's boiling body temperature; it was like being hugged by a demonic fireplace. But Damien locked him in, and Pip did not even want to protest. He sweated from the contact. His throat dried up. There were so many things that he wished to say, but they all fell apart and cumulated into one word.

"Why?" he asked.

"Disaster is a natural part of my evolution," Damien whispered. The tips of his talon-like nails tickled Pip's flushed cheek. Half-opened ruby eyes gazed into sapphire ones. A lopsided grin flashed on the pasty skin.

"Evolution?" Pip whimpered despite himself. He placed his hand over Damien's. The heat gradually ate away the outer layer of his skin. Still, he kept the physical touch.

"Yes, evolution toward tragedy…" the anti-Christ began to answer. He extended his hand. A tornado of flame combusted out of thin air and whipped through the streets. A barrage of cries and screams played in the background. Pip hunched his shoulders, as if that would stop the cries from reaching his ears.

"_Oh my god, they killed Kenny!"_ echoed somewhere from the remains of what used to be South Park.

"And dissolution."

The Marco Polo call left unanswered. Pip turned to scan the ruins, eyes wide open, waiting for the _"You bastard"_ to be said. Not a ghost of a sound came. The Brit's lips quivered. Tears rolled down his face. It burnt when the saline fluid touched the burnt flesh, but Pip held his tongue. He did not cry. He only reached out and tried to hold Damien for long as he was allowed. He closed his eyes, squeezing them tight as his clothes smoked and faded to ashes. He held on even as his skin crisped and blackened. The grin never left Damien's face, and Pip could only match it with an equal one.

"Happy birthday, love," he whispered.

Then it was quiet. All quiet.

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**THE END**

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_Boyue's Note: I wrote this back in 2010. How my writing has changed!_

_2:10 PM_

_11.25.12_


End file.
